


Imperfect

by midas_touch_of_angst



Series: A Series of Unfortunate Events - One Shots [6]
Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events (TV), A Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket
Genre: Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, Autism, Autism Spectrum, Autistic Carmelita Spats, Autistic Quigley Quagmire, Canon ADHD Character, Canon Autistic Character, Canon Compliant, Carmelita Spats has ADHD, Friendship, Gen, One Shot, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Platonic Relationships, Post-Canon, Quigley Quagmire has ADHD, Redemption, so i just imagine she's got both bc she's so special, technically i didn't specify whether carm has adhd or autism (tho i specified quigley has both)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-27 15:23:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20950607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midas_touch_of_angst/pseuds/midas_touch_of_angst
Summary: Nobody ever told Carmelita she wasn’t perfect, so it was very unexpected when the new boy did.Quigley/Carmelita Platonic relationship exploration, one-shot.





	Imperfect

**Author's Note:**

> Inspirations: 
> 
> -my unfortunate stain'd au: https://unfortunate-stranger-losers.tumblr.com/post/184437084556/  
-asoue-sideblog's post about Quigley and Carmelita's relationship: https://asoue-sideblog.tumblr.com/post/183145558675/  
\- gellavonhamster's "Family Dinner" one-shot: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20734589

**** Nobody ever told Carmelita she wasn’t perfect, so it was very unexpected when the new boy did. 

He’d joined the troupe right before the annual hike to the top of Mount Fraught. Carmelita had been False Spring Queen since she was eight, but it was still exciting for her. A whole day of attention she barely had to work for. And everybody listened to her. It was like a dream. Of course, she was rarely told no on other days, but to be fair, most adults rarely told her anything. And she made sure the others were too scared to be able to tell her no. 

So it really surprised her when he gave her  _ critique.  _

They were in the Snow Scout cabin before their trip up to Mount Fraught. And she’d graciously decided to give the other scouts a tap-dancing recital before their scoutmaster got back. Of course they didn’t actually like it. She knew that. But they were watching her, at least. Even the stupid new scout with his stupid mask, because he was “paranoid about snow gnats” or something. 

When she finally finished, they applauded politely, and said, “Good job, Carmelita,” and “Beautiful as always, Carmelita,” under their breath, and then they rolled their eyes and scampered before she could start again. 

Except the new kid. 

He had been mainly curled up in a chair, writing something down in his stupid notebook. But after everyone had started to leave, he shoved it into his pocket and walked over to her. She was huffing that nobody had called for an encore, so it took her a second to notice he was closer to her. “What?” she asked. 

He paused, and then said, “That really was pretty good. You’ve got quite the talent for dancing, and a really good voice. I’d suggest you lessen the twirls, though, that makes you too dizzy and then in Act Three you have to take a second to regain your balance, which seems to be throwing off the rhythm, assuming you want to keep in beat to the record. And perhaps rhyming your words would do you some good, it makes it seem less like you’re making lyrics up on the spot.” 

Carmelita froze for a moment, staring incredulously at him. And then she snapped, “I’m  _ sorry,  _ what?” 

She could barely see his eyes behind his mask, but she could tell he was confused. “I just thought you could use some constructive criticism. That was why you were showing us your dance, right?” 

She gaped at him, hardly believing what she was hearing. Nobody had  _ criticized  _ her before. “Excuse me, but  _ I  _ am flawless and perfect and you’re just a cakesniffer!” 

“Well, you’re not going to go far in life if that’s your perspective.” he said. “There’s always something to learn, and new ways to improve. You do want to be better, don’t you?” 

“I can’t possibly be better than I am!” 

“Again, not a good mindset. Who taught you dance?” 

Carmelita scoffed. “I don’t need a  _ teacher.  _ I can do everything myself!” 

The new boy was silent again for a moment. She started to do a dramatic spin so she could stomp off and mope, but stopped when he said, “That’s very impressive.” 

“What?” 

“You learned all of that by yourself. My siblings are dancers, and they’ve often expressed how hard it can be to learn different techniques. But I recognized some of the ones you used- you must’ve learned from some books or instructional guides, right?”

Carmelita bit her lip. “Um… well, it’s the only real use for a library anyway.” 

“Still really cool. Learning dance without example, or little example. And you’re pretty good at melodies, too. Still, maybe you should get a tutor, just so you’re sure you know what you’re doing. If you get into bad habits-” 

Carmelita spotted two of the other scouts glancing over at them curiously. Watching him critique her. Crud, they’d be getting ideas. 

“Well, nobody asked you!” Carmelita huffed, crossing her arms. 

The boy stopped his ramble, and said, “I’m just trying to help.” 

“I don’t need help from a  _ cakesniffer!”  _

“Cake-sniffer?” the boy asked, but she just stomped off before he could talk to her again. 

But, as much as she hated to admit it to herself, he may have a point about the twirls. They were fun, sure, and gave her a good feeling, like… like energy was flowing back into her. But she didn’t like being dizzy. Maybe she could wave her arms instead. And as for rhyming- no, no, he couldn’t be right about that. Like she’d told that idiot girl at school, only cakesniffers cared about poetic form. 

It was interesting, though. Even though he’d been telling her she wasn’t perfect, that she had  _ flaws _ and  _ problems _ to fix… he’d pointed out specifics. He’d been paying attention. She hadn’t thought he was, he was too busy writing in his book, but… huh. He’d noticed her. 

That was stupid. Stop being impressed by a cakesniffer. 

When they were hiking up Mount Fraught, Carmelita fell to the back of the group. She normally didn’t, but she was tired and Baya and Asia were annoying her by talking to each other about something that wasn’t her. She tried to tell Jaedon about how she’d done her hair for the trip, but he’d managed to edge away and talk to Chloe and Stephen about something much more boring. So she moved past Maya, who was carrying the flag, and Emerson, who was saying something to Mamie about the snow gnats, and found herself walking beside the masked boy again. She didn’t bother to ask his name. It wasn’t like she cared. 

“Why do you wear that stupid mask?” she said, after a few minutes of relative silence. She didn’t like silence. “And carry that stupid book?” 

He was silent a moment, and then said, “I wear the mask because I’m scared of snow gnats. And I carry this book because I write down things that interest me. Right now I’m mapping our route, in case the scoutmaster loses our map and we have to find our way back. Cartography is an interest of mine.” 

“Cartography? Like, shopping carts?” Carmelita asked. “I like shopping.” 

He sighed. “No,  _ cartography.  _ It’s the study of maps.” 

She didn’t like his sigh. It was the same sigh the adults gave her when she said something they thought was dumb. “Whatever, it’s not like I care. Nobody needs cartography or books or anything, you just need to be adorable.” 

“I disagree.” the boy said. “You can learn a lot from books. You learned how to dance, I learned how to read maps. And there’s other stuff. I read up on a history of popular dancers when my siblings started ballet. Do you know about Fred Astaire?” 

Carmelita snorted. “Of course, I’m not a cakesniffer. I bet you don’t know about Mikhail Baryshnikov.” 

“20th century ballet dancer and actor. Martha Graham?” 

“American modern dancer. Won the Medal of Freedom with Distinction, first dancer to perform at the White House. Rudolf Nureyev?” 

“Soviet ballet dancer and choreographer. Bet you know Anna Pavlova.” 

“Obviously. Russian prima ballerina. Everyone knows her.” she paused. “Though, not sure those cakesniffers do. They never laugh at my Pavlova jokes.” 

“Oh, tell me one.” 

She opened her mouth to, and then stopped and crossed her arms. “Nevermind. You wouldn’t get it. I shouldn’t share my brilliance with cakesniffers.” 

“I’ll show you my maps.” 

“I don’t wanna see your stupid maps.” 

“Well, I’d like to show someone.” 

She rolled her eyes. “Only if you rename everything after me.” 

“That’d get pretty confusing.” 

“What?” 

“If you named everything after you. Like, there are a bunch of mountains here. If they were all called Mount Carmelita, and someone told you to meet them on Mount Carmelita, how would you know where to go?” 

“You’d know because I’m the prettiest, most generous, most smartest and most adorable girl in the whole wide world.” 

“Most smartest?” the boy glanced at her. “Not grammatically correct.” 

“Only cakesniffers care about grammar.” 

“Well, grammar is important in writing. Are you a writer?” 

“I’ve written a whole autobiography!” 

“Of course you have.” he sighed. 

“Uh-huh, and it’s been published, unlike your stupid maps!” 

“Really?” He flipped open his notebook. “What’s it called? Maybe I can look it up when we get back to the city.” 

She glanced at him. Was this some kind of trick? “It’s called  _ Me: The Completely Authorized Autobiography of the Prettiest, Smartest, Most Darling Girl in the Whole Wide World.”  _

“Uh-huh.” he wrote quite fast. “And who published it?” 

Her face went a little red. “Why does  _ that  _ matter?” 

“So I can find the book.” 

She huffed. “Fine. My parents published it so that I’d stop using their old typewriter. Happy?” 

He was quiet, as if he hadn’t expected that answer. Then, he said, “Not really. Don’t you have your own typewriter?” 

“I don’t need one. I stopped writing over the summer because it’s dumb.” Carmelita said. “And Mother said that nobody wanted to hear about dance forms for two-hundred pages.” 

“There are plenty of two-hundred page books on dance forms.” the boy said. “And two-hundred page books on maps. People are interested in just about anything.” he hesitated, and then said, “You can talk to me about dance forms. It’s been a while since I’ve read up on them.” 

“Why would you want to hear about that?” 

“It sounds like you don’t have anyone to talk to.” the boy said. “So you can get it off your chest. My siblings used to let me infodump to them whenever our parents were away, and I’d let them infodump to me about journalism and poetry. It might be nice, I haven’t heard someone talk on and on for a while.” 

“On and on? I don’t talk on and on!” 

“Would you like to? I promise I’ll only interrupt you to correct your grammar or word usage.” 

“That’s dumb.” 

“Not really. Speaking of which, you should really talk to your scoutmaster about the Snow Scout Pledge. ‘Xylophone’ isn’t an adjective and ‘xenial’ would work much better.” 

“You can’t  _ change _ the Snow Scout pledge!” Carmelita gasped. “The whole point of the Snow Scouts is we do the same thing every year!” 

“Well, I can’t say I don’t understand the love for routine,” the boy said, “But you could probably make a little change, just to make more sense.” 

“No! We do the same thing all the time!” 

He sighed again. “If you say so.” 

She fell silent, wondering if she should go back to the front and try to talk to Asia and Baya. Then, after a moment, she said, “You really wanna hear about dancing?” 

“Sure. I can take notes on something other than how cold it is here.” 

She bit her lip. When was the last time someone had asked her to talk to them? What had he called it? “Infodumping?” That word gave her a sort of glow in her chest, though she wasn’t sure why. 

“Well,” she said, “I’m mainly a tap dancer, but I’m also a ballerina, and I do other things, because I’m so special like that. Tap dancing is a fusion of a lot of different cultural dances…” 

They spent a night in the cave; they had two nights going up Mount Fraught, and two nights going down. The first night used to be really fun, but it was so chilly that she wouldn’t be able to dance for everyone, and all they could do was eat marshmallows until they got sick. They tried to have Snow Scout storytime, but eventually it got so cold that all Carmelita could talk about was how warm it was back home and how weather was stupid. 

It came time to go to sleep, and everyone spread out their bags. Carmelita usually took the spot right by the fire, so she could be warmest, but she noticed the masked boy sliding down against the wall. And after a second, she rolled her bag out beside his. 

“Hey, cakesniffer.” she said. “Where is it warm right now?” 

He looked over. “Sorry?” 

“It’s so cold. Where is it warm? You know maps and stuff.” 

“You… wanna hear  _ me _ talk?” 

“I wanna know where it’s warm so we can camp there and I don’t have to get frostbite.” she glanced away from him. “Where’s the stupid heat, and why isn’t it  _ here?”  _

He was silent a moment, and she wondered if she should pick up and go to the fire anyway. Then he said, “Well, usually the countries near the equator are warmest. That’s the center of the Earth. Most African and Middle Eastern countries are hot, though not always. I think right now…” 

She bit her lip, and curled up in her bag, and watched him flip through his notebook. 

He was being stupid. She was being stupid. People didn’t listen to her. She didn’t listen to people. But here she was. 

“Hey.” she said, when he’d stopped talking about biomes and was about to go on about map keys. “What’s that thing you said you did? Info-dumping?” 

He glanced at her. “Infodumping. I’m autistic, and ADHD, and when I get excited about my interests I literally can’t stop myself from talking about them. Like right now.” 

She narrowed her eyes. “Isn’t autism what you get when you get vaccinated?” 

He let out a sigh, though she had a feeling it wasn’t directed at her. “Please tell me you’re vaccinated.”

“I mean, I  _ was.  _ Before Father read in  _ The Daily Punctilio  _ that it gives you the autism.” 

“Okay, can I switch the discussion to infodump about autism and the stupidity of this ‘anti-vax’ thing? Because I need you to know this before you get killed by smallpox.” 

“Smallpox can’t kill me, I’m too adorable.” 

“Not how diseases work, Carm.” 

“Um, excuse me, cakesniffer, my name is  _ Carmelita.”  _

“It’s a nickname. People give nicknames.” he paused. “Oh, but before I go on my tangent, I’ve been meaning to ask. What’s ‘cake-sniffer’ mean?” 

She paused, about to launch into a tirade about how he was a stupid cakesniffer. But, after a second, she said, “It means that you’re so poor you can’t eat cake, so you just have to smell it.” 

He nodded. “Oh. That makes much more sense as an insult now. Thank you.” 

_ Thank you.  _ “No problem, cakesniffer.” 

She didn’t see him again for years. 

He disappeared the night after, with those two trespassers. She tried not to notice. He was just a cakesniffer who ran off after some boring nobodies. He didn’t deserve to hear her talk. He was probably lying about the “autism” and “ADHD” thing anyway… though she liked the words “stimming”, and “infodumping”, and “overstimulated.” And “special interest”, and “hyperfixation”, and… 

Well, Esmé had told her that was dumb. She believed that her parents had been right about the vaccinations thing, and informed her new daughter that she shouldn’t listen to dumb children with books. 

She’d been picked up by Esmé the next day, when the other Snow Scouts were captured. He was there, trying to warn her not to trust the adults. His mask was off, and she’d recognized him. At first, she thought he was the stupid orphan boy from Prufrock, but then she remembered they’d said something about a dead sibling. Apparently he wasn’t dead anymore. She pretended she didn’t remember his name. She had a new family now- Countie, and Esmé, and… well, the henchpeople left pretty quick. 

And then Countie left, too- tore her harpoon gun right from her hands and threw her to the ground, yelling about how she had to be disciplined. And the next night was the fire. She hadn’t believed the orphans at first, though she’d  _ really _ wanted to take off her blindfold and check. Then she smelled smoke, and she  _ did _ take off her blindfold. And she dragged Esmé out, until Esmé shouted something about the Sugar Bowl and left. Left her. Left her alone. 

She didn’t see Esmé after that. She thought she was still alive, but if she was, she never bothered to check up on her. 

Her parents had been killed, so she was sent to her closest living relative. But her Uncle was only her guardian for a few weeks before the banker lady in charge of her came to visit, flipped about something or another, and sent her somewhere else. 

People tended to follow her, from home to home. With spyglasses and tattoos and whispers about sad occasions. She ignored them. Sometimes she kicked or punched them. She didn’t want them near her. Not anymore.

Then she had a guardian who didn’t throw her out. Didn’t get tired of her yelling and screaming. She made a rude gesture and said rude things as soon as he was introduced to her. He just gave her a look, said that she’d fit right in, and brought her to the place he shared with his sister and her wife. His sister was an actress, and she taught Carmelita stuff about the theater when she was ready to listen. Her wife would sit across from them, folding pretty things out of paper. She said something about ADHD, too. She showed Carmelita how to fold, to help her focus. And her guardian, who worked as a secretary of some kind at his foster sister’s paper, would come home and ask her about her day. He’d bring her dance books. When she tried to run away, he went looking for her every time. 

When she finally told them that, okay, maybe she’d stay a while, but that didn’t mean she liked them or anything- basically meaning the adoption was finalized- he invited his foster sister over. It was Carmelita’s birthday, and his sister was going to bring her own foster children for the party. Apparently his whole friend group had a heart for orphans or something- that girl at the coffee shop they frequented had this little girl from an island cult running around, along with some other girl Carmelita hadn’t met yet. 

So her guardian’s foster sister came over, still holding newspaper articles she had to edit and slugging a giant typewriter with her, and behind her came the Quagmire triplets. 

“You adopted  _ Carmelita Spats?”  _ said Isadora, shock rippling across her face. 

Duncan looked surprised, too. “You? You’re here? We thought-” 

“We hadn’t heard about you since the Hotel Denouement-” 

“When Ellington brought us here, nobody knew who survived and-” 

Carmelita crossed her arms and stomped her feet. “Of course! Of course I’m cousins with you cakesniffers now!” 

Isadora groaned. “God, you’re still on that?” 

“Cakesniffer doesn’t even mean anything, Carmelita.” Duncan said. 

“Actually,” said a voice very similar to his, “It means someone who’s too poor to eat cake, so they just have to smell it. Complicated insult, but creative.” 

Carmelita paused as the boy came around his brother’s shoulder. Duncan looked at him in surprise. “How do you know that?” 

“I told you, we were Snow Scouts together.” the boy turned to her. “Not to pleased with how you treated my siblings, but I’m glad you’re not with Esmé and Olaf anymore.” 

She bit her lip, staring at him. He looked the same, though he had a few extra scars here or there, and his hair was a bit less messy. She didn’t look the same, she knew. Her hair was longer. Her skin a bit more tanned, because her guardians insisted she be outside instead of holing up in the basement. And, well, she had the burns. They weren’t too noticeable, she’d been told, but as someone who’d lived her life desperately clinging to how adorable she was… 

She realized, then, that none of the Quagmires had mentioned her burns. Like they hadn’t even noticed. 

“You know her?” their guardian asked, as Carmelita’s guardian helped her put the typewriter down somewhere. 

“Um, yeah.” Isadora said. “Used to go to school together.”

Duncan smiled a little. “Whole squad’s back, soon as the Knight-Hix-Baudelaires get back from their roadtrip.” 

“You know Ms Feint adopted Fiona, right?” the boy asked. 

Carmelita groaned. “Of course she did. Because this is a cakesniffing town.” 

“Speaking of cake,” her guardian said, ruffling her hair, “We have plenty in the kitchen. Come on.” 

Duncan and Isadora followed him, rapidly asking how he’d gained custody of Carmelita and if she’d been giving him hell. She waited a moment, fixing her hair in the hall mirror. 

Then, before he could follow his siblings, she called, “Hey, Quigley!” 

He stopped and turned. “Yeah?” 

She paused. “Um. I just…” she still wasn’t good at this whole “nice” thing. “You know… before you joined the Snow Scouts, um. Nobody ever let me… infodump. And listened. So, um.” she took a deep breath. “What… what have you learned about maps over the years?” 

He looked surprised. “I can’t believe you remembered that.” 

“I remember more than people think. It’s why I’m so special.” 

“Sure. And you can tell me about dance.”

“Ornette’s been teaching me jazz.” 

“Sweet.” he paused. “We should go; we can talk in the kitchen. My siblings freak out if I’m not next to them.” 

“Gee, I wonder why. Is it cause you died?” 

Quigley smiled, then, and gestured for her to follow him, and she did. “Come on, cakesniffer. They’ll be waiting.” 


End file.
